One Looney Idea - Day 146

If you are new to ONE LOONEY IDEA, read below, otherwise, jump down to the picture.

In 2006, we began a relationship with Ethiopia that we cannot turn our backs on.  

We don’t really want to turn away, but life became undeniably more DIFFICULT after our first, and consecutive trips. Members of our family were in Ethiopia in ‘06, ’07, ’08, ’09, and ’13. In Ethiopia, the majority of people build a life with less than a dollar a day. A dollar a day does not provide basic necessities. Roughly 39% of Ethiopians live below poverty (<$1.25 USD)—that is over 28 million people. The population of Canada is just over 35 million. 

The world is not equitable. 

***

We all have challenges. At this point in my life I am living with abundance. It doesn’t feel good to continue to accrue treasures when so many live with scarcity. I want to choose something different.

From January 15^th, 2015 – January 14^th, 2016, I am going to spend ONLY a dollar a day (average) for discretionary items.

I will put one loonie into my purse each day. Every time that I want to make a purchase, I will stop and think. I am becoming a thoughtful and responsible consumer, one day at a time—for a lifetime.

You can support me by pledging a dollar a day for any part of my 365 day challenge. The money will go to Canadian Humanitarian, who we have worked with extensively over the past nine years. —Just check out my Pledge Page on the left side bar. 

Betam amisegnalo. 

***

The Daily Dollar

The loonie idea isn’t going very well. Bankruptcy looms large when dealing with a jar full of coins.

I have not handled the circumstances outside of my control with the constraint I imagined I possessed. I have a couple of valid excuses: our daughter was admitted to the hospital, and then our dog got acutely ill and needed to be admitted to a veterinary hospital. But everyone has circumstances outside of their control. I thought I could be mock poor, and make the kind of choices that a woman in Ethiopia might have to make. However, stress drops us to a default position, a place that evolved due to economics and demographics. Adequate health care isn’t a reality in many parts of the world, and pets are a privilege that many cannot enjoy—how can I really compare?

Something happened during this time. I hadn’t emotionally recovered from one hospital admission and discharge, when I found myself filling out paperwork for another. 

After dropping my furry companion Abby off at the Veterinary Hospital, I went in search of a coffee shop, so I could sit and write.  Abby became sick just four days earlier, maybe life-threateningly sick. She spent a night in the hospital because of prolonged vomiting and subsequent dehydration. She spent a couple of days at home, but wouldn’t eat or drink and seemed uncomfortable. I took her back for more diagnostic testing.

My head definitely hung low as I got out of my van and walked toward the coffee shop to wait for the call from the vet. A man, seated on an upturned milk crate, said, “Good morning, how are you?” “I’m fine,” I said, and hurried to the parking machine. While I stood at the meter I realized I had not asked him how he was. I should go back, I thought. I wondered if he was homeless. I sighed, and walked away.

In the coffee shop, I found a seat by the window and cupped my warm mug—a leaf pattern swayed in the frothed milk atop my coffee. I thought about Abby, and stared out the window. I’m not ready for her to die, I thought. I opened my laptop, and stared at the screen. Nothing. No inspiration. My gaze moved over the monitor and back out the window. Across the street, “milk-crate man” sat in the same spot, smoking. He drew air from his cigarette as if it was life sustaining. I need to go back and ask him how he is. I stood up to go, but I had already spread my writing implements across the table, and my hot coffee implored me to stay. I sat down.

I watched him as a character in a play. His quiet movements—the lift and fall of his hunched shoulders, the smoke of his cigarette rising like a signal, his hand floating to his mouth, and the slow draw of tobacco-steeped air—mesmerized me. I studied him for a few more minutes. I looked around the packed coffee shop, wondering if someone could watch my stuff, if I left briefly. No. I slid my computer into its case, grabbed my purse and walked out, leaving my coffee and notepad on the table. I strode across the crosswalk, and stood in front of him. “Hello again,” I said. He looked up at me, quizzically. Clearly I had not been on his mind. 

“You asked me how I was awhile ago, and I did not ask you how you were,” I said. 

“Actually, I’m not doing too well,” he said.

“I had a feeling,” I said.

His words constricted in his throat as he told me he had recently become homeless. I listened for the next several minutes to part of his story. I conveyed to him some understanding of his hardship, even though I had never exactly suffered in this way. Becoming homeless, and staying at a shelter was a significant failing for him. He found it hard to be with others whose suffering was of a different magnitude than his. He told me about many who are addicted, and many who are not “right in their heads”. He felt uneasy being there.

“Is there something that I can do for you today that would make your day a bit better?” I asked.

“You could get me a burger. I’m pretty hungry.”

“Easy,” I replied.

I learned about the line-ups at night for food. Most nights they run out of food, he’d said, before all of the people are fed. I could not fathom it. Right then, my phone rang. I recognized the number of the animal hospital, so I excused myself and answered. They had found a mass on my dog's spleen, free fluid around the intestines, and inflammation of the wall of the stomach. They wanted permission to take some samples for the lab to analyze. “What are the possible diagnoses?” I asked. Cancer, or severe inflammation, they said. When I ended the call, “milk crate man” asked me if my dog was going to be okay. I said that I didn’t know. He said he was sorry. I believed him. “Isn’t it odd,” I said, “you have recently become homeless, and right here—in the same city—I am worried about whether my dog is going to live.” He nodded.

I put out my hand, “My name is Wendy.” He shook it, “I’m Daryl.” We talked for a while longer. I learned about Daryl’s family, I wondered if he had anyone who could help him out at this time. His partner of nineteen years had recently died. He is fifty-six years old, has arthritis and is limited in what he can physically do. He needs medicines that he can’t afford. He picks through garbage looking for bottles every day, until his body gives out on him. “Praying keeps me sane,” he said, and he tapped the side of his head with his index finger.

“How about if I help you collect bottles, in my own neighbourhood.” I said, "Would that be helpful?” 

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Edgemont.”

“No, I could never make it there.”

“I will collect bags of bottles, and bring them here to you,” I offered.

“That would be great,” he said with tears in his eyes.

“Okay, Daryl I will see you again later this week, and I will have some bottles for you.”

I bought him a burger, and when we parted, I held his hand and wished him well. He took my hand, and kissed it. 

***

 On that day, I had an epiphany. 

One loonie idea isn’t about the daily dollar. It is about making change, being intentional, opening our eyes to others in the world. Approaching Daryl, something I would not normally do, created an opportunity for me to envision something different. It provided me a chance to step toward someone who suffered alongside of me. There is no scale to measure human suffering; no one is immune to it. But together, we will bear our own circumstances with more lightness and grace.  

I am not amazing for this act of kindness. It is by moments, the world, and you, and all of us that are amazing. Together change happens. 

Post-Script:
Our dog Abby came home with some medications and a special diet. No cancerous cells showed up. She is recovering.
I sent a note out to my 'village' of women to help me collect bottles for Daryl. Within two days, our garage filled with fourteen garbage bags of recyclables, plus a $20 gift card, which I will take down in batches over the coming weeks.